Duck Butts!

Inquiring minds have asked me why I have a thing for ducks and, specifically, duck butts.  I think it can best be explained by letting you have a preview of something I've been writing off and on.  So this, as Paul Harvey would say, is the rest of the story.  Sort of.





CHAPTER 1

“It’s still my damned house!”  The disembodied words coming from the answering machine hit me right in the middle of my solar plexis and propelled me straight up off the couch.  Even in a fever-induced, half-asleep haze, this unprovoked attack from the landlady had the power to get my blood pumping.  Normally, I would be able to take a deep breath, consider my options and arrive at a reasonably calm response.  Today, however, was not one of those days.  Sleep deprivation, a hacking cough, and a 101 fever had lowered my civility bar.  Substantially.

It could have been the fever, but there was a strange feeling of euphoria as I gave myself permission to throw off the tenets of my Southern Belle upbringing and let it fly this time.  That whole Miss Goody Two-Shoes persona was getting old.  Besides, I couldn’t take deep breaths to calm myself without coughing up a lung.  To bolster my sense of outrage, I listened to the message one more time, as I stabbed the buttons on the phone and pulled up the weather forecast online.

“Good morning, Miss Willadean.  What can I do for you this morning?”

“I’m sending someone over to winterize the cooler.  There’s a storm coming in, and I’m not taking a chance on the pipes freezing up!  You are always thwarting my workmen, and I’m not standing for it anymore.  If you don’t let this one in this morning, I’m giving you notice!” she snapped.

“First of all, Miss Willadean, the predicted overnight low is 48 degrees, according to the weather report I’m looking at online.  I hardly think we have to worry about pipes freezing.  Second, there is only a plastic water line running to the cooler.  No pipes.  Third, I have sat here for days waiting for workmen to show up and they never did.  Finally, I am running a fever, and I do not want to deal with this today.  Besides, I’m pretty sure any workman you send over will not appreciate being exposed to whatever creeping crud I have.”

“Can you at least unlock the gate, so he can get up on the roof?!” she barked.

“Sure, I can drag myself out of my sick bed, get dressed, go out, unlock the gate, and dig the cooler cover out from under 20 boxes in the garage.”  I calmly replied, following up with some impressive coughing.  I might be willing to cooperate to a certain extent, but I was definitely making the point that I was doing so at great personal inconvenience.

Without giving her the opportunity to respond, I continued “And, next time, I would appreciate reasonable notice and a civilized conversation before you call and leave nasty messages on my answering machine.  Thank you.”  With that, I hung up.

Almost immediately, my imaginary, pesky, Pez-sized Southern Belle conscience swooped down, landed on my shoulder and started scolding me.  In a move guaranteed to get me carted off to a rubber room if anyone else ever witnessed it, I flicked the invisible, tiny tiara-wearer off my shoulder.

“Enough already,” I muttered to myself.  “I don’t know who she thinks she is, but you just don’t talk to people like that.”  Then, I snarkily added, “I’m not even gonna give her a ‘bless her heart’ this time!”

By now, any prospect of trying to take a healing nap was gone, but I was definitely not going anywhere today.  Even if I had felt like going through the exhausting motions of showering, blow-drying, make-upping, and dressing, the rest of the world was not gonna welcome me with open arms.  At least not without spraying me down with Lysol first.

“I want my mama.”  I whined aloud to the empty house.  Empty because my husband, Josh, was out of town attending another seminar of some kind.  Seemed like he was always working.  Nights, weekends, holidays.

“Oh, wah, pull up your Big Girl Panties and get with the program already.”

I was trying to decide how to get on with the day and do something halfway constructive, between coughs, taking my temperature, and trying not trip over the trailing end of the blanket I was wrapped up in, when the phone rang again.  “That had better not be Willadean throwing her weight around again,” I growled to myself as I snatched the phone up.

“Mac’s Mule Barn, head jackass speaking!”

From the other end of the phone, I heard, “What?!”  Followed by a snort and the unmistakable belly-laugh of my best friend, Paula.

“Yes, Girlfriend, you heard it here first.  According to Miss Willadean, apparently, I am a jackass,” I replied.

“Ooookay, Jackie, what did you do now?” Paula asked, with a note of wariness in her voice.

“Why does it have to be me that did something?  I’m a good person.  I don’t go around cursing at people’s answering machines,” I snapped.  And then I laughed, realizing how bizarre that sounded.

“Okay, okay.  Let me get some coffee, and you can fill me in on the latest happenings in Redneckville,” she said.

Paula and I have been friends for more than 20 years, since we both ended up at the same air base in England.  We were introduced by a mutual friend, Shelly, whom I had known in Sardinia, Italy, when my husband was stationed there.  From the outside, we are an unlikely duo.  Paula was a cop in the Air Force for 18 years, she doesn’t do dresses, she’s a champion bowler, and she hates American cheese.  On the other hand, all of my jobs have been in offices and required professional dress – heels, hose, make-up – I can’t bowl to save my life, and I put American cheese on everything.  I love the outdoors and being in the wilderness.  Her idea of the wilderness is an out-of-order ice machine at the hotel.  We do, however, both love books, animals, cappuccino, disco music, and road trips.  Somehow it works.

I quickly filled her in on the dust-up with the landlady and followed that up with a little self-indulgent whining about how crappy I was feeling, and how I was home alone, again.  As usual, Paula had me laughing in no time, and I wished for the gazillioneth time that there weren’t several hundred miles separating us – with her in Alabama and me in New Mexico.  But, that’s what happens when you’re in the military.  You make friends, you get to spend maybe a couple of years together, and then everyone gets sent somewhere else.  But, even 13 years after my husband’s retirement, there are a few people I stay in touch with on a regular basis.

After about an hour, I said, “I guess I’d better get off this phone and do some research for the birdfest at the wildlife refuge next month.  I’m supposed to be helping out with the “How to Identify Duck Butts” class, and the instructor still hasn’t called me or shown up.  With my great luck, I’ll end up leading the class, and I’m pretty sure this won’t be a “fake it till you make it” kinda thing.  I can’t wait to see what pops up when I do a search for ‘duck butts.’”

Paula cried, “Duck butts?!”

“Yes, duck butts.  When ducks are in the water, they spend a lot of time with their heads under the water and their butts sticking up in the air.  A good duck watcher can tell one duck butt from another one.  It’s a whole thing,” I explained.

“The things you get yourself into.  And, yeah, you might wanna brace yourself.  A search for “duck butts” could bring up some seriously disturbing images that will be stuck in your head.  Forever.  Some things you can’t unsee,” Paula said.  “Good luck, Sweetie!  Bye!”

As I put down the phone, I distinctly heard Paula snicker and then snort again.  Like I said, Paula is just not that into anything to do with the outdoors, and she is sometimes barely able to hide the fact that she thinks I’m crazy for cavorting about in the woods.  I’m not even sure she’s ever been all the way to the back of her own back yard.

The next couple of hours were taken up with the duck butt search and printing out everything I could find.  No way was any of this going to stick to my over-heated brain cells today, but at least I now had a file folder full of info and full-color pics of duck butts.  Hopefully, at least some of these butts would actually show up at the wildlife refuge.  I thought maybe my fever was up again, because suddenly “duck butts” struck me as hilarious.  Not necessarily a good thing, because every time I tried to laugh, I ended up coughing and choking.

“That’s enough of that.  You need some food,” I said to myself.  “Yipes.  This whole talking to myself thing could actually be a problem.”  Stifling a chuckle, I put the file folder aside for later and went in search of chicken noodle soup.

So, now you know.  Since moving here, one of my favorite places is the wildlife refuge, where I was first introduced to the art and science of ID'ing duck butts.  Besides, saying "Duck butts!" (especially at weird times and places) never fails to either make someone's eyebrows shoot up on their forehead or make them chuckle.  Try it!  I Triple-Dog, er, Duck dare ya.  Duck butts!  Duck butts!  Duck butts!  ;)

A Miniature Southern Belle Easter

Ooooooo, Easter. When I was a little girl, Easter was a time of high excitement and, since my mother is a full-fledged, card-carrying Southern Belle, she pulled out all the stops. You simply could not do Easter properly unless you had a new Easter ensemble to wear to church. And I mean head to toe. Literally.

Several weeks in advance, Southern Belle Mama would begin plotting and scheming Easter outfits. This would entail untold numbers of trips to fabric stores to look at patterns, fabrics, buttons, ribbons, bows, thread, rick-rack, lace, and anything else that might either be used for the actual dress or bobby-pinned and/or shellacked onto my head. (I shudder to think what she could’ve done with a Bedazzler.) After all the necessary elements had been gathered, I would then be summoned to the sewing room, where I would patiently (*cough*) stand while the tissue paper pattern was pinned to me (my clothes, not my actual skin) and adjustments noted.

At some point thereafter – I have no idea how long, because I was much too busy catching ringworm from stray cats, building forts, and throwing dirt clods at the stupid boys who lived down the street – I would again be summoned to the sewing room. This time there would be a dress, or maybe just an appendage of a dress, that had to be tried on and checked for proper fit. It always seemed to me there was an overabundance of straight pins at this stage of the Easter Dress, and it was my least favorite part of the whole process.

Truth be known, the dress didn’t really excite me at all. Considering the time and energy Southern Belle Mama put into those dresses, she would not be pleased to know this. And we won’t even discuss those traumatic curly perms. {shudder} Luckily for me, she steadfastly refuses to get a computer. So, let’s just keep this between us, okay?

No, what really got me going were the accessories. Sweet rhubarb! There is nothing quite like brand new patent leather shoes. Or the way they make you feel. Magically, I was transformed into a fairy princess. Gives me goose bumps just thinking about it. And there was always a matching patent leather purse to go with them. And, of course, those sweet little pure-white, lace-adorned socks. And, last but not least, white gloves.

Given my obsession with patent leather, I’m sure Southern Belle Mama was certain, with time, my rough edges would smooth out, and I would effortlessly follow in her pointy-toed, high-heeled footprints. Unfortunately, signs to the contrary were apparent early on, and the evidence is right there in the family album. There are a whole lotta pictures of me in my Easter-best ruffled and frilly dress, perfectly accessorized with patent leather shoes and purse, ruffled socks, gloves, and a precious little hat. Yes, there I am, the very picture of miniature Southern Belle perfection, until you spot the Band-Aids on my knobby little knees and elbows. I can almost hear my mama sighing in the background when I look at those pictures.

I don’t know for certain, but I would be willing to bet Southern Belle Mama was on the receiving end of a passel of “bless her hearts,” when the good ladies at the Junior Women’s League were discussing their daughters. I think it’s safe to say some of my tomboy ways were probably clucked over and tsked-tsked. But, you know, I’m also willing to bet my mama couldn’t have cared less what they thought. But I digress.

Yes, Easter was a HUGE deal in my family. After weeks of preparation for the Big Event, we got all dolled up and went to Sunday school and church together. After that, there was a family dinner, usually at my grandma and granddad’s house, followed by a challenging Easter egg hunt or two with my cousins. I say challenging because my grandma had the most amazing gardens (yes, plural) of anyone I have ever known.

If we were really lucky, someone would break out the ice cream maker and all the ladies would gather in the kitchen to concoct their special blends of ice cream flavors. For some reason, it was always my job to sit on top of the ice cream maker to keep it from moving around, while someone cranked the handle. (Those of you of recent birth might have to Google old-fashioned ice cream maker.) I remember my mother would always put a towel on top of it for me to sit on, so my little tushy wouldn’t freeze to it.

Of course, I always got the customary Easter basket filled with chocolate bunnies, robin’s eggs, and jelly beans, but that wasn’t that big a deal to me. At a young age, I knew Easter was about Jesus rising from the dead and that it was really important, but I didn’t have a true understanding of what that meant. To me the most important thing about Easter was getting to celebrate it with my family.

Okay, okay, the patent leather shoes and purse ran a close second. Happy? ;)

Wishing you and yours a Blessed Easter. May God richly bless you all on this most special day.

Wonder Woman, Tiaras & Anti-Drama Llamas

When I last reported on Southern Belle Mama she was sashaying through my front door, looking spectacular after an eight-hour drive, and carrying homemade fudge. I, on the other hand, was fretting over the fact that my nails looked like I had been using them to pry open rusty paint cans, my roots were showing, the barbecued chicken in the oven was approaching jerky-status, and I forgot to wash the good napkins.

Like I told you before, Southern Belle Mama is the least critical person I have ever known, with the possible exception of Southern Belle Granny, but she is also the most together person I have ever known. And, try as I might, I have never been able to reach her level of Southern Belleness. If we actually wore tiaras, my mother’s would be perfectly perched and centered on her perfectly coiffed head, with no visible means of anchoring, and mine would be hopelessly tangled in my hair and teetering just above my left ear, despite the duct-tape running through it and under my chin. I consider myself lucky to be hanging onto the bottom rung of the Southern Belle ladder with my ragged, polish-free nails. Most likely, I have been spared banishment for the simple fact she is my mother.

Now, the words “Southern Belle” conjure up images of delicate females who get the vapors with little to no provocation, and are prone to being drama llamas. But Southern Belle Mama has always been strong, fearless and drama-free. I can easily picture her, hands on hips, facing down a grizzly bear, shooing him back into the woods, and then going casually back to putting on her lipstick, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

So, when I checked the answering machine yesterday and heard her almost-but-not-quite tearful voice saying she really needed to talk to me, I panicked. My hand flew to my chest and, yes, I almost got the vapors. If I actually had a fainting couch, I would have been draped over it. With my heart in my throat, I called her back, convinced that something was very, very, very, very, very wrong.

One ring, two rings, three rings and she answered the phone in pretty much a normal voice.

“Mama! What’s wrong?!”

“Oh, Hon, you’ve been on my mind the last few days, and I’ve been worried about you. I really needed to hear your voice. Are you okay?”

“Well, I will be as soon as my adrenaline levels come back down. You scared the crap out of me!!!!” (Yes, I was in such a state I actually said “crap” to Southern Belle Mama.)

As my breathing slowly returned to normal, I assured her I was fine, and we talked for another half-hour or so. I won’t bore you with all the gory details, but something important came out of that conversation you might need to hear.

Being the drama-avoiding, strong women we are, we realized we don’t tell each other important things we probably should. We have a tendency to keep things that might worry the other to ourselves. In times of stress, we don’t lean on each other and seek out that emotional support. More often than not, we don’t even tell each other about distressing events until whatever it is has been resolved and the whole thing is over. We have both faced down our fair share of life’s low blows, but most of those battles have been fought standing our own two feet, with the help of God.

Being a strong woman doesn’t mean you don’t need another living, breathing, caring person to lean on, share things with, or seek advice from, especially when you’re in the heat of battle. So, we agreed to start doing that more. My mother and I have always had a great relationship, but now I am excited to get to know her better as a person and a friend.

By all means, seek guidance from God, send up your prayers, and go out and fight the good fight, but remember, my sweetnesses, reaching out to one another is not a sign of weakness. Confiding in and leaning on a friend does not make you a whiner. You are allowed to be afraid. Everyone is. You are not Wonder Woman with a Magic Tiara and bullet-deflecting accessories. And, after all, isn't loving and supporting each other our Prime Directive?

Like I used to tell my son, you have to have at least four hugs a day to keep from being weird. Consider yourself hugged. It’s up to you to go get the other three.

Southern Belle Rules

I got The Call a couple of weeks ago. I knew it was coming. Yes, it’s that time of year when the snowbirds fly away home, and we are a convenient stop and watering hole for the snowbirds we happen to be related to – my mama and stepdaddy.

So The Call came. The one where I am informed of the intended departure time from Snowbird Central and intended arrival time at our house a/k/a The House Where Your Daughter Has Been Dusting Light Bulbs and Scrubbing Corners With a Toothbrush and Forgot To Do Her Nails. The call which leads me to ask my husband, “Do you think we can find a new house, get all new stuff, and get moved before they get here? It would be easier than tackling this mess. This place is no Tara.”

Now, please do not get the wrong impression here. My mama is the least critical person I know. She has always been my biggest fan, and I am one lucky girl to be able to call my mama my friend and mean it. She’s the best. Yep, she set that bar pretty high.

And therein lies the problem. She’s the best. The best cook. The best housekeeper. The best dresser and accessorizer. Hair and make-up always done. Nails always perfectly manicured and polished. She speaks softly with just the right amount of Southern drawl. She doesn’t tolerate injustice, is never afraid to speak her mind, but she is never loud, not even when provoked. She also sews, crochets, and makes all kinds of things from scratch. In short, my mama is a Southern Belle. Me? Eh, not so much.

For your enlightenment, here are a few of The Southern Belle Rules and how I measure up:

1. You are not to so much as go to the mailbox without hair, make-up and nails being done. You never know who might be out there. {TRIPLE Fail!}

2. Jeans are acceptable. However, in no event are holes or fraying of any kind acceptable, and they should always be paired with a cute top or blouse. (Bonus Belle points for cute t-shirts with embroidery.) NO sweatshirts. {TRIPLE fail!}

3. Handbags and shoes should be season and occasion-appropriate and color-coordinated for the outfit you are wearing. For example: No striped wool-blend handbags with flower print dresses and high-top Reeboks. (Yeah, like I wear dresses.) {Fail!]

4. Accessories (jewelry, scarves, etc. - color-coordinated of course) are required but should be understated. Too much is just tacky. Note: Nose and uh, other body part rings are NOT jewelry. See #7 {Check minus! Not quite a total fail.}

5. No one is EVER to leave your house hungry. (I have been told the road to hell is littered with the bodies of those who left your house hungry.) {Check!!!!! This one I got!}

6. Green beans are to be cooked for a minimum of one hour. Longer is preferable. In short, there is no such thing as overcooking green beans. However, due to dietary considerations, you are no longer required to use bacon and bacon grease. Bacon bits and the appropriate zero trans-fat margarines are now acceptable. {Check!}

7. In general, body piercings and tattoos are frowned upon, most especially if the tattoos are large and are not spelled correctly. However, it has recently become acceptable to have two holes in your ears. {Check!}

8. Except under dire and extreme circumstances, you should always be Miss Congeniality. {Fail! I have been known to tell people to kiss mah greeyuts.}

9. If it should become necessary to express yourself in a more forceful manner, you should employ the Oh, You Poor Sweet Thing, I Put You in Your Place and Made You Like It tactic. Also known as The Big Stick That Talks Softly, this is the Southern Belle way of charming someone and telling them off at the same time. When done correctly, people will be so charmed they will not realize until much later they were KO’ed. Delayed reactions are quite common. People have been known to yell “Ouch!” and fall to their knees up to 14 days after being on the receiving end of one of these mint-julep zingers. (My mama, of course, does this effortlessly.)

SPECIAL NOTE: Successful implementation of this tactic will get your professionally-painted portrait in the Southern Belle Hall of Fame on the same wall as Scarlett O’Hara.

Now, the degree of difficulty on this one is extremely high, and I have never been able to pull it off. When I express myself “in a more forceful manner,” it falls more closely within the “pitchin’ a conniption fit” category. See #8. {BIG Fail!}

10. If cornered and you have no choice but to say something less than flattering about someone, always follow it with “bless her/his/your heart.” {Check minus}

11. Secret family recipes are just that – secret! It is extremely bad manners to ask someone for a secret family recipe or to give one out. Violation of this rule will result in a two-event no-tiara penalty and snubbing at the next Women’s League meeting. {Check! You will have to pry my granny’s chocolate pie recipe out of my cold, dead hand!}

12. The wearing of tiaras is limited to: graduation parties, coming-out parties, prom royalty, engagement parties, weddings, wedding showers, baby showers, participation in parades, those who have been voted or deemed the Princess or Queen of any festival, fair, party, or group consisting of at least 3 members (i.e., Ya-Ya Sisterhood), after a break-up, bad news/good news of any kind while commiserating/celebrating with your Southern Belle buds and eating ice cream, and divorce proceedings. (Please note it is highly recommended that you wear only rhinestone tiaras in court during divorce proceedings.)

The tiara rules also include several subsections, the most important of which is how to care for your tiara.

Subsection A: It is strictly forbidden to wear a tarnished tiara. Tiaras must always be kept absolutely spotless and as shiny as possible, so as to reflect any and all available light. (Otherwise, no one will notice you, which defeats the true purpose of the tiara. Duh.)

Subsection B: When not in use, a tiara is to be kept in a velvet-lined box in a climate-controlled environment. It is not a toy. Please give it the respect it deserves.

{Quadruple Fail! I often wear my tiara at non-sanctioned events such as when vacuuming or doing dishes. I do, however, remove it when cleaning certain unmentionable porcelain parts of "necessary" rooms. I thought I'd better point that out. That would just be too gruesome for words!)

I think it was obvious very early on that I was not quite Southern Belle material. There are a whole lotta pictures of me in my Sunday/Easter-best ruffled and frilly dress (made by my mama, of course), perfectly accessorized with patent leather shoes and purse, ruffled socks, gloves, and a precious little hat. Yes, there I am, the very picture of miniature Southern Belle perfection until you spot the band-aids on my knobby little knees and elbows. I can almost hear my mama sighing in the background when I look at those pictures.

By the way, in case you are wondering why I still call my mama “mama,” that’s just something we Southern-types do. Your mother and father are called “mama” and “daddy.” This is not something you outgrow and suddenly one day they are “mom” and “dad.” They are always and forever “mama” and “daddy.”

Of course, this is only a small sampling of The Southern Belle Rules. I can’t tell you everything, or I’ll be tossed out of the program and forced to give up tiaras forever. I am hanging by a thread as it is. I’m pretty sure the only reason I’m allowed to claim any Southern Belle status at all is because my mama is such a well-respected member. I am closer to the Carol Burnett Scarlett O'Hara. And I'm quite sure when I am spoken of by other Southern Belles, those conversations include a generous dose of "bless her heart."


Oh, the visit? I’ll save that for the next installment. For now I’ll just say my mama arrived looking spectacular, after an 8-hour drive, and carrying homemade fudge. {Sigh}